I Think We're Gonna Make It
by MaidenStar
Summary: AU, S1 E3. Rather than letting Alex arrest Ryan Burns and just explaining to Rosebury-Sykes later, Gene drags her away before she can finish. But now Burns has seen Alex in a way he considers too impure to live, what will the outcome of Gene's actions be?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Bonjour =) This will be my second Ashes to Ashes fanfiction on here, although I have started another three. It's just that my muse does these things to me, in that I start writing something, make loads of progress and just when I think I'm close to finishing, something else pops into my head that I know I have to write. **

**Anyway, this latest concoction of my mind occurred after I finally bit the bullet and ordered the first two series' off the internet having been an old scrooge who was unwilling to spend such a sum of money on something you couldn't read, write on or wear. Anyway, predictably I have watched the things on loop for ages now and after having seen the third episode of Series 1 this little AU came to me. **

**Just to say, this is not going to be some angsty tale of epic proportions about what happens in Alex's life after the attack. I think it will be done and dusted in a short, hopefully sweet, two to four chapters. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own them, I never have and never will. I'm just borrowing them for a little while, I'll give them back in a bit.**

I Think We're Gonna Make It

Chapter 1:

"Ryan Burns, you're under arrest for the rape and attempted murder of Miss Trixie Walsh," Alex began, groping through the little-available storage space in her somewhat restrictive fancy dress costume for her police warrant card.

In her peripheral she saw Gene's eyes widen in panic as Rosebury-Sykes made his leisurely way ever closer to where they were standing.

Finally locating the errant ID she prepared to quickly, if discreetly for Gene's sake (to avoid his bursting a blood vessel or something), show it to Burns. Fixing him with her best, frostiest, steeliest look, she prepared to continue her sentence – the thing that was now a TV show and movie cliché; a commonly imitated spiel.

"You do not have to say any..._what_?" she was cut off as she felt Gene prod her arm, hitting a bone and setting off a throb. She rubbed the spot irritably as he gestured with his head at Rosebury-Sykes as he kept making his meandering, lordly way nearer; milling closer and closer and threatening the whole operation.

"Oh I don't bloody care," she whispered through her teeth, her jaw clenched so hard it hurt. She refocused her attention on Burns who had, by now, perfected the almost-twitching, rabbit-in-the-headlights look. This was fast turning into the farce she had been desperate to avoid.

"Ryan Burns, you do not have to say anything..." and, apparently, neither did she. She felt Gene hook his hand into the crook of her elbow and drag her away before Lord Pain-In-The-Arse could hear, and before her suspect could be apprehended.

She was pulled, protesting all the way, across the open deck level of the boat until they could lurk as inconspicuously as possible in an unoccupied corner. She was wedged as far as possible into the right-angle made by the merging of the two railings at a perfect ninety degrees. Gene was blocking her in, checking over his shoulder to see if they had been seen, to see who had done the seeing. When he was satisfied they were in fact unseen he directed his attention back to Alex.

"You have to be more careful Bolly," he said quietly, instinctively inclining his body towards her slightly to make them take up as small a place as possible. Okay, maybe that wasn't the only reason but if they could make themselves as little as humanly possible for two ridiculously dressed adults, then maybe they could melt away altogether. His eyes met hers and his resolve to remain as angry as possible bled away as she shot him a look that made him wither, wrenching her still-trapped arm away as brashly as she could muster and hitting her elbow in the process. It really was a very enclosed space.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" she hissed. "You're compromising this whole investigation, not to mention my own integrity. He's our man and you bloody well know it as much as I do," she added, her sheer anger causing her to breathe heavily and clench her fists.

"We have to play it safe; go softly softly Bolls," he whispered back equally angry – angry at her anger and at his own cowardice. Angry at her anger _at_ his cowardice. Angry at being so confused. Not really sure why they were _so_ angry at each other in the first place and most especially when there was a man in the vicinity who had done so much more than piss off his D.I. or D.C.I. by undermining them.

"I couldn't care less, Gene," she said and he noticed that in her anger the finger-waggle around his name had reappeared. "We need to arrest this guy, you heard what he said better than I did!"

"Yes and I agree, he's _probably _our guy," emphasis on the 'probably' to show her that he still didn't believe this Trixie bird. "But Drake, and I suggest you mark this down as a first for the Gene Genie, we cannot go in all guns blazing!"

Her eyebrows clambered up her forehead in an expression of faux-surprise. She let out a classic Alex Drake laugh –a high and melodic cry which burst from her as she threw her head back and the curls bounced around her face. It was followed immediately by a single inhalation – low and almost rasping as it caught between her lips and clung to her throat; sultry, gasping. It didn't matter who or what she was laughing at (even if it was him), the sound was enough to make his brain slow down (not that it wasn't always running at low speed when Alex was around) and his heart shudder a bit. In its confusion it tended to pump blood the wrong way, too. Far too much of the stuff went southwards.

He ducked back a bit (still enough of his senses remained to do that) as she threw her arms up and cried,

"Well, that's just _great._ Bloody fantastic. The time Gene Hunt forgoes guns and violence and does it right and by the book for once and it all goes tits up, it's bloody wrong as usual!"

He tried not to take it personally but actually, he took offence at that.

"See 'ere Drake, I take offence at that. I've done nothin' bloody wrong, you can still 'ave your bloody suspect, but not while 'is lordship is 'round. Get the bastard when all is quiet,"

She stood on tiptoe to look above his head and her eyes scanned the deck slowly and carefully.

"Oh I can, can I?" she demanded. "Because now he knows we're on to him Gene, I can't see him anywhere! Funny that, you'd have thought he'd want to hang around for us to drag him off to the station," she was getting louder and people would probably start staring if the volume rose further, but he just didn't care anymore. If she wanted to turn this into one of the now-famous, storming Alex Drake vs. Gene Hunt shouting contests, then he'd match her blow for blow. The raging arguments (not always confined to just being verbal) were the stuff of legend by now throughout Fenchurch East.

"Well, did you want a job to go back to or not Drake?" he shout-whispered. "Because if I'd let you arrest 'im you would've 'ad to let 'im go anyway, because Rosebury-Sykes would 'ave 'ad the Commissioner strike you off before you could say Bollinger's. I was trying to 'elp yer,"

"Yeah well that went bloody well then didn't it? You tried to help me and now you've buggered up my operation," she cried (well, sort of), her voice reaching a crescendo (if you counted normal conversational volume a crescendo). She pushed past him, his body limp and willing to let her pass as it had failed to anticipate the action. He grabbed her arm again before she could get away and once again she wrenched it back, their positions reversed now – he with his back to the railings, her blocking him in. She turned away again, wordlessly this time.

"Where the bloody 'ell d'you think you're going woman?" he demanded, a few decibels short of a snarl.

"To find Burns and deliver justice," she called back. "Before he hurts someone else. And let me tell you this," she whirled around to face him again. "If anyone else gets hurt, if anything goes wrong, it'll be all your fault, Hunt," her hissing was back as she prodded an accusatory finger at Gene's chest before turning on her heel and slinking away. His reply dissolved in his mouth as, with a figurative and literal tail-swish, she was lost in the mingling crowds before he could call to her to turn around. He at least wished he could have told her to watch her back. Look after yourself, Alex. Stay safe. Please.

She was fuming as she stormed away. No, beyond fuming. She hated him right now. The stupid, idiotic, twatting, bastarding arsehole.

'_Bastarding', nice touch Alex that's pretty commendable and – wait, you're meant to be Gene bashing here._

He was a Neanderthal. He was terrified of power – of having it, of succumbing to his own or others, of not having it. God, she detested his machismo and bravado and chauvinism (she couldn't think of another "-o").

She hated the way he was letting the Commissioner wrap him round his little finger just because some overly well-to-do lord with too much money and no idea of what to do with it shook your hand in a funny way. It shouldn't make any difference. This job was all about delivering justice and screwing the bureaucracy. Or at least, that was how she thought she'd created this world. That was how she thought Gene was constructed, particularly when he called her into his office to protest about the Thatcherite-Wanker...wanking. But apparently not, not if he wouldn't let her arrest a man who had raped and tried to murder one woman and maybe even raped and killed young Delphine Parks.

Couldn't he see that she was trying to get home? That maybe, just maybe, every single case she solved dragged her that little bit closer to her daughter and further away from the grinning, taunting, beckoning clown that haunted her life wherever she turned; left, right, centre. Just by being his Stone Age self he was jeopardising her survival. He might be killing her.

Gene bloody Hunt.

She hated the way her skin had tingled when he had grabbed her by the arm, the wrist. She hated the way his body had come millimetre-close to touching hers. It certainly felt like he was killing her. She hated it.

But she loved to hate him all the same.

She was stressed and confused. She could tell. The main indicator was the way she kept grabbing cocktails from the trays proffered by dapper waiters, although not one of them was Ryan Burns. She was a self-powered production line – take drink with one hand, tip it back and down it as quickly as possible, suppress the shudder throughout her body and the burning in her throat, put the empty glass on another tray with the same hand and pick up another simultaneously. It wasn't really a conscious production line. It wasn't really helping either. The alcohol hadn't kicked in yet, at the time she needed it. And yet, it would probably kick in when she least needed to feel pissed. Or to throw up violently and embarrassingly. Who knows, maybe she'd end up throwing up all over Rosebury-Sykes. Actually, maybe that wouldn't be so terrible. She'd rather like to see something vulgar ruin that smug shine on his shoes. Maybe she could time it when he and Gene were standing together. It would be a bit embarrassing, but it would be worth it. But that would require more alcohol, much more alcohol.

Her hand darted out to pick up another glass, this one containing champagne (Bollinger's, strictly no knickers) as she skirted to the edge of the deck for a better vantage point.

A moment later a second hand shot out.

This one clamped around her mouth before she could even take her second sip. Her scream, one of shock rather than terror was muffled immediately. An arm closed tightly around her waist. Next thing she was being dragged down an extremely steep, narrow flight of stairs that she hadn't even noticed before. She cried out and struggled but he was surprisingly strong for a skinny, terrified lad. She could feel his heart beating a quickstep through his shirt against her back.

She tried to scream again but his clammy hand clamped tighter across her lips and she dimly noticed the cold of a metal band push vertically against her lips.

She was tossed unceremoniously through a low doorway onto a hard wooden floor but that was as much as she could tell. Places were often described as pitch black but rarely was this so accurate. For Alex though, it was no exaggeration. The door shut fluidly and her sight was gone completely. She got to her feet and began to edge around this way, that way, anywhere was better than nowhere. He'd probably have a knife. She would not be a sitting duck. She would be calm, clever, she would be a psychologist and get herself out of this using reasoning and logic. There was absolutely no need to panic, Alex.

A lock pinged shut and a rustle like loose change told her that the key was no longer in the door.

Oh bugger.

Maybe she should panic.

One nano-step north-east, another dead west. Taking a random path to where she perceived the door to be. So far as she could tell he had not moved then but that didn't mean she knew where he was standing, far from it. But then, neither did he know precisely where she was standing either.

"Who are you? What do you want?" As if she even needed to ask.

A creaking footstep in her direction told her that he sure as Hell knew where she was standing now.

Shit. She took a step to her right in the hope it would lose him for a second. They were dancing a deadly two step and she couldn't allow herself to fall behind and get out of time. The music was the brass band of her fear and it was clogging up the room. But she couldn't lose the rhythm.

"Ryan," she began, realising she hadn't even seen him. "It is you, isn't it Ryan? You don't have to do this, don't give the police another reason to arrest you." All the while she spoke she didn't stop moving, she could tell he was slowly, passively following the path her voice paved in front of her.

"I...I saw you today," he began, his voice shaky and scared. "I have to do this,"

"No," she whispered. "No, you don't," she said quietly but he cut her off with a cry;

"Yes I _do._ I have to. I saw you."

"What could you possibly have seen that means you have to do this?"

"I saw you with that man. Dancing. Acting like a prostitute, a slut. That wasn't the way the Lord wanted you to be. You have sinned."

"Look, I know this won't change your mind Ryan, and I doubt if you'll even believe me, but I want the truth to be said," she began,

"What?"

"It was an act, it was all an act. I was...am...undercover. I was trying to play a part."

He let out a startled shout of delirious laughter.

"Even if I believed you, even if you weren't lying, it doesn't change a thing. You're impure, you're all impure," his voice was getting higher and higher as his fear cast a shadow on all rational thought. Alex could tell just from the way he spoke that he was terrified of what he'd become. He was terrified every waking second of what he could suddenly do if he lost a sense of himself. Scared of the monster within, the one we all have but while some keep it tamed others accidentally open the cage. Once it's let out, you can't put it back in. It was Jekyll and Hyde syndrome – his rational side was terrified of what he became when he was faced with people he perceived to be impure, the sinners.

"If this isn't what you want Ryan then you don't have to go through with it," she said and he let out a kind of strangled noise that was half cry, half sob.

"Yes I do, I have to," he repeated, it was all he seemed to be able to say.

"No, no you don't," she insisted – it was as good as anything else she could say. "I know you're terrified of this Ryan, I know you don't know where it came from, so naturally you feel that you can't put it back but let me tell you, you can Ryan. All you need is someone to show you how. You just need to fight it this once and someone can tell you how to escape all this fear," she said softly, waiting for him to cut her off again.

"I know you feel like you're trapped inside your own head and it makes you feel so small, so alone. I can understand that, I'm trapped right now too and not in the way you think, but in this whole messed up world. And it's a cruel place and it's not perfect and it's certainly not how God wanted it to be but you can't fight the impurities this way – there's more than one way to do it, Ryan.

You can do it this way and never try different paths or you can give something else a try. You could help people in more ways than one. And that's all you want, isn't it Ryan? I understand, I really do."

The hanging silence was looming in around her, particularly his lack of reply. Throughout her speech and her attempts to get inside his head she had forgotten one very vital thing: to keep moving. One minute she was convinced he was somewhere in front of her, feasting on the ginger-bread trail of her words to keep up with her, the next he once again grabbed her from behind, causing her heart to shoot into her chest. She felt her breath catch in her chest and her eyes start to flicker as he pressed his sovereign ring into her, marking her. This was a branding. The branding before an execution...or a sacrifice.

"I do want to help people and that's why I...have to do...this," he choked and Alex, even in her fear, felt that it was a kind of excuse to her rather than an explanation. Almost a sort of apology, really.

Then, all rational thought burst from her as she felt the smooth coldness of a blade caress the soft, tender skin of her throat. It caught and nicked as it went but didn't really break the skin or draw blood. It wasn't time for that yet.

She didn't know if having studied the case in detail and knowing what should be coming around every corner made it better or worse. Worse because she knew of the pain she was about to feel and of the likelihood of death but better because she knew how much time she had left, she knew the routine she had to go through before the end.

She would run and fight and try and get out if she could. Then she could try begging. And if that didn't work she'd scream and throw things to make as much noise as possible is she had to. Scream for help and for her mum and her dad and her daughter. Scream for the presence of Gene Hunt to make it all better.

**A/N: Thanks for getting all the way to the end. Obviously it's not done yet so I'd love to get some reviews saying what you liked, didn't like and how to improve the subsequent chapters and getting the emails telling me someone has reviewed my story just generally makes my day.**

**As a little add-on, my totally unrelated A2A oneshot **_**The Man in the Mirror**_** was posted on a day when I went on holiday for a bit and as a result I couldn't thank each and every one of my reviewers as I like to as I got really behind with everything. Damn that real-life stuff! Therefore, this whole fic is for the wonderful people who read and reviewed, I wouldn't keep on posting if it wasn't for you guys! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed Chapter 1, I didn't expect so many reviews in just one day. Anyway, I hope you're all enjoying this story. I've decided now that it's going to have three chapters, so just the one to go after this. I hope you enjoy, as usual I welcome all feedback (reviews make me smile so much). Thanks very much to **_**Elliewelly1, Hel101, FireUpTheFanFic, graciemay94, Blue-Jackal, da ruth, Roxannaaaax **_**for reviewing. In answer to **_**Blue-Jackal's**_** question/review: no I had, in fact, never read _rantandrumour's_ fanfiction you're talking about. I did however read some of it after you asked and I do see the numerous similarities – no plagiarism intended, pure coincidence, apologies to _rantandrumour_. Anyway, on with my fanfic. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own them, I never have and never will. I'm just borrowing them for a little while, I'll give them back in a bit. Also, I forgot to disclaim the title in the first chapter. It's taken from the chorus of **_**Feeder's **_**song **_**Buck Rogers.**_** Check it out if you've never heard it. It's fabulous. **

Chapter 2:

"Alright Guv? Where's D.I. Drake?" Chris asked as he stumbled over, a mixture of alcoholic cocktails and thick-lensed glasses playing malevolent tricks with his eyesight and balance.

"Chris!" Gene barked angrily, "I bloody well told you not ter call me that while we're 'ere, someone might blow our cover," he watched with satisfaction as Chris flinched at Gene's town and angry glare.

"Sorry Guv, I mean boss, I mean..." he trailed off, evidently unsure of what he meant. Partially, Gene was glad – he wouldn't have minded if Chris and Ray suddenly decided to start using his given name out of the office but it would feel weird and almost uncomfortable to hear the two men calling him 'Gene' over a few bevies in Luigi's. Didn't stop Chris being a div though.

Next thing, double-oh-Ray had sidled over looking thoroughly worn out and pissed off.

"Whas'up wi' you Raymondo? Not enjoying the party?" Gene asked, slightly smugly.

"No I'm bloody not, I knew I should have just come as Jesus – everyone thinks I'm a sodding waiter. I mean can't they see I'm James Bond with a 'tache? I'm not even carrying a tray or anything?"

"James Bond with a 'tache and a few extra pounds," Chris sniggered, attempting to duck out of the way of a swift punch from Ray. It would have worked if he could have seen which way to move. He rubbed his shoulder indignantly. "Alright Ray, I was kidding."

"Well it's not bloody funny – the sooner we leave the better. Have we got anyone? Where's Drake?" he asked sulkily.

"I dunno Raymondo," Gene replied, "she's got 'er posh briefs in a twist over me tryin' to avoid winding up with an 'ighly pissed off Rosebury-Sykes _and_ Commissioner on our backs. I'm just tryin' to 'elp 'er, moody mare," he grumbled more to himself than to anyone else but the two men nodded sympathetically anyway.

"Women," Ray agreed, nodding his head gravely. "Can't do wrong for doing right, or right for doing wrong with them," he said. "I don't know why they've got to be so moody and pernickety all the time personally,"

"It's 'ormones," Chris offered as the standard excuse and solemn, pensive nods were exchanged all round. "You can tell me what you like but with women it's always, _always_ their 'ormones making them moody or emotional or extremely happy and whichever one it is they always start crying," he mused, wide-eyed with fear at the daunting idea of trying to delve any further than that into the minds of the opposite sex.

"First sensible thing you've said in a long while Christopher," Gene said, acknowledging what he saw to be 'the truth' behind the female problem.

"And anyway," Ray went on, "Drake's probably in a mood because it's her time of the month. I mean how can women do anything – hold down any kind of responsibility or authority – when they've got the painters in between their legs," he said, delighting in anything that underplayed the importance of the monthly affliction. "And no matter what," he continued, digging a bigger hole rather than reassuring and impressing his Guv, "Drake's always been a bit of a moody bird, no pun intended," he grinned (clearly the pun had been most definitely on purpose). "She seems to think she's better than all of us, trying to catch that young girl's killer all by herself and implying we missed something the first time – s'a bloody cheek if you ask me."

Gene, despite his general agreement, felt a flicker of annoyance at Ray's words. It wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last time he insulted Alex in front of Gene. As his boss, trying to run the good ship CID as smoothly as possible he couldn't leave it go unchecked. It was one thing moaning about womankind in general – no man ever had understood women or ever will – but another completely to undermine your superior.

"I've said it once and I'll say it again Raymondo," Gene answered in his lowest, most dangerous voice, "while I'll agree with what you and Chris 'ere said about the fairer sex, I won't 'ave you makin' it personal and draggin' Drake into this. She may be a woman, she may seem a bit off 'er 'ead sometimes but not only is she your superior, but she's a bloody good copper. You need to learn to give 'er your respect Ray,"

"Or she will never respect you, Raymondo," Chris chipped in, trying out some of the nancy-boy stuff he used to impress Shaz sometimes.

"Poof," Ray answered. "Anyway, who said I wanted Drake's respect? If you ask me, CID was better off without her," he asserted.

"Now come on Ray, give her a chance, she's done nowt to you," Chris reasoned and Gene nodded.

"Well said Christopher," he added, not really sure why he was so keen to defend Alex. Not that he wouldn't have done it for any of his colleagues, respect needed to be mutual if a department was to run well. But either way, in the relatively short time he had known Alex he had already grown to detest hearing bad things said about her, particularly behind her back, and felt as if he needed to rectify them in order to protect her reputation. Which was a strange thing to feel, all things considered, because he'd never felt the need to so fully protect a bird before and yet he couldn't have picked one who least wanted, or needed, his protection. It was all a bit confusing. But that was the way it was supposed to be, he supposed.

Ray huffed a little and his brows knotted together sulkily. This was to be enhanced only a moment later as a somewhat intoxicated man dressed as something resembling the male Boudicca and his friend; the narwhal each thrust an empty glass in Ray's direction, the former slurring the sentence,

"S'it alright if we leave this with you mate?"

All Gene heard as he wandered aimlessly away was, '_I'm not a bloody waiter alright? I'm dressed as Bond. James Bond? 007? Get the picture?' _

He strolled around the deck as casually as possible, looking out simultaneously for his Lordship, Ryan Burns and Alex. Rosebury-Sykes he spotted immediately without any trouble, Burns proved harder in that he was dressed like the rest of the staff, but what troubled Gene the most was the lack of any sign of Alex. She wouldn't have left, not without her suspect. She could be in the ladies' or something, but it had been a long while since he had seen her and he did want to make up with her sooner rather than later. So where the hell was she?

All the while, the three men were typically unaware of Alex's situation.

Burns had still not relinquished his hold on her. Not that she knew how long they'd stood there – a second maybe? An hour?

But then, neither had he killed her.

They stood in blinding, deafening, numbing silence for an earth-shattering timespan; neither of them daring to move save for the uncontrollable peaking and troughing of their heaving chests.

Then, she felt a drip of warm liquid splash onto her bare shoulder. Just one drop. But then, everything changed.

He changed his grip onto her shoulders and the pressure of his fingertips bruised the delicate skin, hastily and rudely sweeping his teardrop away as if denying it ever existed.

He swivelled her around so they were facing, although she could still see nothing – all was assumption. Not even the knife she knew he carried glinted – there wasn't a chink of light anywhere.

Once again her skin burnt as he dug his ring into her for the second time, leaving an indent in the sensitive, tender flesh and muscle just below the centre of her left collarbone.

"_I am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from me you can do nothing_," he quoted in a whisper.

"Please don't believe that this is what God wants you to do," Alex tried, changing tack slightly.

"What do you know about God?" he hissed angrily and Alex thought about protesting her knowledge. All the years of expensive private education at a highly religious, Christian school, all the morning prayers (and the lunchtime and afternoon ones), all the Latin classes, the Bible studies and, as the girls got older, the religious discussions popped into her mind. She thought about telling Burns what she knew, but she didn't. She knew it would all be circumstantial anyway. She knew what the Bible said about God and what He supposedly wanted out of humans but that was as far as she went. All she had was fact, not belief. She was firmly, rationally agnostic. If that was even possible. She wasn't sure anymore. All she knew that this was not God's will. This was just plain wrong.

"I know enough to know that He wouldn't want you to do this. He told us in the Decalogue," she breathed, hoping that, if nothing else, her terminology would earn her a few extra seconds of life. Right now, she was after as much bought time as she could get. "They tell you it's a sin to kill, don't they?"

"The Bible tells you so much more," he protested, "if people only chose to read it".

_I have,_ Alex thought. _Many times over_.

He continued, showing what he believed to be his superior knowledge of his religion,

"_Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God_."

"Don't you see? You have to be washed. You must be sanctified. It's my job to cleanse you for God, and for Jesus. I have to help you wash away your sins."

Alex knew she could protest that she was only keeping up an act today. But that was today. What about other days? She was unmarried with a daughter, she was pretty sure that was enough justification for Burns. Not only that, she'd been fully prepared to have hot, passionate, one-night-stand-type construct sex with a Thatcherite businessman her mind had spewed up. And last night she _did_ have hot, passionate, one-night-stand-type construct sex with some posh wanker. She was exactly the type of woman Ryan Burns despised. The modern woman. The way the majority of women would be in the 21st Century. It was just the way the times had changed.

"You must repent for your promiscuity. I will show you how," Burns went on, "_so flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart"._

"Please Ryan, please," she begged in a desperate whisper, giving up on all attempts to reason and resorting to tugging at whatever heartstrings the irrational Ryan Burns could still feel. She slammed her eyelids shut, for no good reason other than that it felt like the right thing to do, and automatically she saw technicolour sparkles burst out behind the thin flesh curtains. A hot salty tear spilt from the corner of her eye down her right cheek, the muscle tense and taut.

_I don't want to die, not here, not like this._

She thought of Molly, praying she would get the gift of seeing her daughter grow up.

_I'll never take anything for granted again, I promise. I'll use every second I'm given – even those times when we're watching TV at night over piles of homework and case files or when we're sat in the car first thing in the morning all bleary-eyed._

All of a sudden Burns released the pressure below her collar bone, he stopped digging the ring in. It wasn't that important a change though – she'd forgotten about it a long while ago. It didn't matter anymore really, did it?

To the crescendo of two people's heavy breathing she lamented the fact that she had wasted the opportunity to save her parents – she'd be dead before _them_ this time around. Or maybe death in this world meant life in 2008. She only wished she hadn't parted on such bad terms with Gene. She'd told him that if anything happened because of Burns it would be his fault. She hoped he wouldn't blame himself if she didn't make it out of this.

Next thing, the grip on one of her shoulders slackened.

She took a deep breath, she'd believe she was going back to Molly, it was all she could do really.

Nothing happened. Maybe he was having a change of heart.

Or not. The sudden, white-hot searing on her chest told her that. Something hot splashed onto her stomach. He'd slashed her breast, just like she knew he was going to. The ritual was well and truly under way now, even if she didn't have a clue how he knew what he was doing in the dark. Practice maybe. She shuddered at the cold, terrifying thought that a human could become 'good' at murder if they did it enough. It was true though. As a police offer she knew that. The longer the suspect went uncaught the less likely he or she became to leave silly clues behind.

It wasn't until he checked his watch and saw the time that he began to worry. At first he just thought she was taking her time in the toilets, pissed off at him and maybe a little upset the turn of events after they'd just begun to get on (at least, that was how he felt). Then after that excuse had been worn out he thought that she would be mingling with the guests and staff, doing her very best to get the dirt on Burns, to find another window of opportunity to arrest the bastard.

He strolled around as casually as possible for an incongruous cowboy from one end of the deck to the other, around the edges, cutting tracks through the centre, standing on his toes and craning his neck from each of the four corners to try and spot her. He crept through the 'out of bounds' area, more often than not walking in on some guy at it with a prozzie, trying to pretend he couldn't feel or see the gold band on his fourth finger. He tried the staff areas to see if she was interviewing anyone, loitered around the toilets as long as he could without looking like a perv, even risked a peek inside. Nothing. She had disappeared. Maybe, just maybe, she'd gone home out of protest and lack of apprehension possibility.

It was his choice, either he could be a nancy and phone Luigi to ask if she had gone for a drink or poked her head around the door (as was her custom) to say goodnight to the little Italian. Or, he could take a deep breath, get another drink, see what he could find on Burns and just make up awkwardly with her in the front seat of the Quattro tomorrow morning. It would be less embarrassing and he would look less of a ponce.

But he wouldn't sleep a wink that night if he did that. That would be heartless. He'd just be making things worse. Might as well bite the bullet now and get it over with. He made his way over to the phone just outside the staff and kitchen areas. The one that Rosebury-Sykes had instructed was to be used by guests at their leisure. It wasn't very private mind, but it would do. He sighed, with all these posh, clever bastards milling around, couldn't someone invent some kind of phone that you could talk on whenever and wherever you felt the need? One that didn't look like a brick and require a suitcase just to cart around. He wasn't asking for something out of a science fiction film or Tomorrow's World that did whatever you told it to or had no buttons and just a big screen you pressed. Just something he could use to chat in private where he didn't run the risk of being overheard by Ray or Chris and sounding like a twat.

He shook his head, _nah Genie-boy. They're all too busy touching each other up and taking it up the arse. It'll never happen – not in a million years, except in the films. We'll all be talking on ruddy great wired phones and listening to cassettes and typing on typewriters into the second half of the next millennia. All these inventors are just posh tossers with too many brain cells and nothing practical to do with them._

He dialled the number on the poor, almost-redundant (now that he'd mentally invented the next big thing) phone and waited for Luigi to pick up. When he phoned the bar he liked to give the man enough time just to get into his stride. Then he cut him off. Just for the hell of it, really.

"Good evening, this is Luigi's restaurant and bar, how may I..."

"It's me you twonk."

"Good evening Signor Hunt," came the weary reply. Gene could almost see him massaging his temples with his free hand. "What can I do for you this evening?"

"I...er...I was just wondering if you'd seen Drake today?" he asked, trying to sound non-committal.

"No, I haven't Signor Hunt, is the lady not with you Mister Hunt?" Gene's heart began thudding harder and faster as he heard the words he was dreading. For the first time, the thin veil of panic began to descend. What if something had happened? Come to think of it, how long had it been since he'd caught a proper sight of Burns?

"No, not anymore Luigi, but I didn't get to offer 'er a...lift 'ome. I was...er...just wondering if she got back safely," he brushed it off as best he could given the circumstances.

"Is something the matter?"

"No, nothin' like that, Luigi. I'd better be off now, 'night."

"Goodnight Signor Hunt."

He hung up and made his way back onto the deck. As he did so, Ray caught sight of him and hurried over, Chris tottering in tow.

"Y'alright Guv? You seen Drake about anywhere yet?" Ray got straight to the point.

"Nope Raymondo, neither 'ide nor 'air."

"Well I did some digging around – proper investigation like. Spoke to some fit waitressing bird as it happens," a smug, contented look began to take over his features and Gene, keen to get on with things, pressed for him to continue. "Yeah well, she knows Burns well – as a colleague I mean, no more. But she said he was a good worker even if he was a bit odd. Well they've been rushed off their feet all night and it hasn't gone unnoticed that, as she put it, Burns has been slacking off. Not like him at all apparently. Thing is Guv, they haven't seen him for the best part of an hour. Same time as Drake went off, wasn't it?"

That steady rhythmic, panicking heartbeat increased twofold.

"I think it's time to get busy Guv," Chris proposed. "We're gonna have to sound the alarm, the ma'am could be in some real trouble."

Shit. If even Chris thought that (and he was always the calmer one, the one less likely to rush into anything and jump to a conclusion) then it was definitely time to panic.

He couldn't help but think about what Alex had said to him last – _'let me tell you this; if anyone else gets hurt, if anything goes wrong, it'll be all your fault, Hunt.'_

She heard him wiping the knife on something – the rustling sound of cloth on metal invaded her ears as he whispered,

"_Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own_. I must cleanse her, wash away her sins and impurities, God requires us to repent and bury our sins," he spoke seemingly more to himself than to her.

Just as she was beginning to give up a strange, obvious thought hit her.

Why was she doing this? Why was she acting like her fate was sealed and it was time to die? Why am I not fighting this? I have to live. I have to keep going. I have to fight.

**A/N: Thanks for reading again, just for all you fact-freaks out there (it's okay, don't be ashamed, I am too) I'll include where the Bible quotes are from: the first one (I am the vine...) is from John 15:5, the second (...the unrighteous will not inherit...) is from 1 Corinthians 6:9-11, the third (so flee youthful passions...) is from 2 Timothy 2:22 and the final one (...your body is a temple...) is from 1 Corinthians 6:19.**

**Some reviews would make my day and as usual I'd welcome any corrections and concric – this is unbeta'd so any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi, well here I am on this fic for the final time. Call me stupid but I only just noticed that the site has taken out my dividers in the last two chapters. How irritating! I knew they were doing it with asterixes but with the squiggly little dashes as well? Outrage! Scandal! Anyways this rant was just my way of saying sorry that the ebb and flow wasn't what it should be. Hopefully these dividers haven't sodded off somewhere – this chapter needs them the most.**

**Thanks to everyone who's read so far. The traffic stats, as well as all the lists and alerts I've been put, have been staggering. But thanks especially to the reviewers, particularly those who took the time out of their days to review both chapters. Thanks to **_**graciemay94, da ruth, FireUpTheFanFic **_**(who left a particularly splendorous review, thank you so much, I squeed a little, I'll admit)**_**, A2A-Mad **_**and**_** Elliewelly1 **_**(I'm happy to write a bit thanking any reviewers, not matter how few or amny, so it was no problem at all and I'm glad it made you smile, enjoy your holiday)**_**. **_

**Disclaimer: I don't own them, I never have and never will. I was just borrowing them for a little while and now, sadly, it's time to give them back.**

Chapter 3:

As Alex was making her mental decision to stop acting like such a girl and fight her way out of this, Burns was obviously coming to a decision of his own. The knife was back at her throat, the point digging into the side and cutting it slightly here and there, as an overstated threat. She would have to go about this carefully. As the knife convinced her to remain still and calm just for a moment longer, Burns' free hand began to roam her body. It was slow and jerky as if unsure and almost rather repulsed by her. She was certainly repulsed by it. She squirmed this way and that to try and keep it bay but this only served to make Burns prod the knife into her more.

"I have to cleanse you myself before you meet the Lord. You cannot stand before him impure as you are," he whispered against her ear, his breath hot against it. He began fiddling with her costume and even Alex saw the humour in his awkward one-handed attempts to navigate the skimpy outfit. She had had enough trouble getting the sodding thing _on_, at least it had come in useful for one thing. As she sensed him becoming more and more distracted by getting rid of her clothing she began arching her neck away from the blade that was getting less and less insistent. When she had mustered all of her resolve she ducked out of his way, aimed a kick at him and pushed him away from her with all the strength she could physically find within her, a small cry escaping from her lips from the effort. With the straining of her body in pushing him with all her weight behind the motion, she felt the blood spurt from her wound a little more enthusiastically. She pressed her fingers to it, feeling it stab in protest at her touch, the blood immediately trickling down her fingers. She didn't know why she chose the moment she did. She could have said she had done it when it felt right but when does anything ever feel right at times like this? It's always just a maze of wrong. A strange, muddling haze of wrong.

Immediately after pushing him away she began to move quickly, occasionally making contact with the odd object. At one point, the feeling of the floor beneath her changed from hard and flat to soft and thick, making her think of a huge rug beneath her feet. After that, she fell against something that felt like a chest of drawers and then against what she fancied as a bed. _This must be one of Rosebury-Sykes' guest cabins_, she asserted. She realised how much noise they were making and hoped that someone would hear and come to the room to find out what was going on.

All the while, he was right behind her, grabbing at her. A stray fist caught her face, spinning her around. She couldn't orientate herself. She had no idea where she was going, there was no escape and soon, he would catch her. So, in a deft but desperate last-ditch hope she ducked quickly and quietly. A searing pain in her head which extracted a pained sob from her told her that he had collided with her as she'd hoped, rather than the loud strangled cry and dull thud. He'd caught his feet and fallen. With the blood still oozing through her costume from the cut he'd inflicted she threw herself away from where she presumed he was lying as quickly as possible so he couldn't reach out and catch while she was stationary – as before the golden rule was keep moving. Quickly finding the edge of the room she kept her crouching position, as painful as it was. With her back to the wall she groped around the floor with the hand that wasn't pressing the cut to try and keep the blood in. She searched as best she could for something, anything to use a weapon but there seemed to be nothing to be found. Instead, she edged around the walls until she found the door, hoping and praying it was the one she came in through, the only one in the room. She shot to her feet, her back skimming the wall. As she did so she came into contact with the light switch. At first when everything was painted with bright yellow light she thought she was having a heart attack but the organ regained its life-giving rhythm as quickly as it lost it.

At first she was robbed of her sight in a similar way to being shut in the pitch back, only this time it was like a negative picture. Before her eyes adjusted everything was bright white, fading to a dirty yellow then to a sepia colour until she could see the room before her, albeit with spots floating behind her eyes. As she had gleaned from her frantic rushing around, the room was indeed a cabin. The worn-effect wooden floor was covering in the middle by the thick and fluffy cream rug which had an ugly, dirty crimson stain in the middle from where the blood was running down her hand. Tucked at one end of the room was a spacious queen-sized bed with a silky teal bedspread and plush, plump cushions. It was indeed a guest cabin for any one (or two) of his lordship's most favoured guests – it was somewhere only staff would have had the keys to on a night like this and this served only to back up Trixie's story.

Somehow, she took in all of this in a split-second, barely giving a shocked and equally blinded Burns time to right himself and get up.

What through she would never know, be it sheer luck and good fortune or natural human fight or flight mode, she noticed a small wooden end table standing near the door. On it, in a little heap, sparkled a key-ring with tag and, most miraculously the key to the door. She thought he had put it in his pocket, but obviously she had been wrong – he clearly knew the rooms well enough to be able to navigate them in the dark, putting her at a serious disadvantage, right from the off.

She looked from the key to Burns and saw with a jolt that he was surveying her as she focussed on the key. Simultaneously, they moved. He tried to throw himself to his feet but stumbled and staggered, no doubt thanks to the disorientation of the fall and sudden illumination of the room. She lunged at the table and failed to stop in time, colliding with it painfully. Unperturbed she scooped up her prize and fumbled with the key, trying to get it into the lock. Eventually it turned. Clicked. The handle moved and the door fell open.

She felt the cool whoosh of the evening air and fancied that she could all but smell the freedom and safety awaiting her in the party above deck. All she had to do was get along the corridor and up the stairs. As she prepared to make a run for it a shifting movement above, at the top of the flight of stairs caught her eye. There was someone standing there. Should she cry out? Just as she began to hurry towards the bottom step the silhouetted figure above her who was beckoning and gesticulating at someone Alex couldn't see turned around at the sound of her footsteps. Eyes squinting she managed to catch a glimpse of his face, which moulded into an expression of shock and fear, presumably at the sight of her – ruffled, terrified, probably bruised and most certainly covered in blood. It was Gene.

"Bolls?" he shouted, springing into action and beginning his descent in Alex's personal Hell. "Jesus bloody Christ," he stopped briefly to stare at her in shock and take in her appearance. "Are you alright, what's 'e done to yer?"

"It's not as bad as it looks," she assured him and herself, "I'm oka…" she was cut off as he shouted her name. Her actual name, not Bolls or Bolly, and began to hurtle towards her. His source of panic became evident when Burns threw himself on her from behind, dragging her backwards. She screamed and reached out to Gene who was trying to catch up with them, but he couldn't make it. The door was shut and she was thrown into the room.

She ran to try and escape again but Burns held her off and wedged the high end table (the one that had held the key) beneath the handle. The light was switched off and everything was plunged again into black. Before she could get away Burns had pounced and she fell to the floor, hitting her head. His hands found her throat and began to close around it,

"You cannot escape the Lord," he hissed. "No one is exempt from his power and we must help him to judge those who sin."

She could hear Gene shouting to her but couldn't reply. She struggled until the strength left her and then her eyes flickered shut.

-/-/-

Prior to turning around to find Alex standing a mere flight of steps below him, Gene had gone into adrenaline-fuelled panic-mode and simply become the brash, angry D.C.I. Hunt to get him through it all in some semblance of a collected manner.

"Right, you two, start looking around for 'em. Just start checking wherever you can, bugger rules and regulations and where's 'off-limits': nowhere's off limits now. Ask people the last time they saw that bastard Burns and call in uniform as soon as you can," he instructed, tongue and vocal chords battling against the dryness of his throat and mouth.

"Where you going to start, Guv?" Ray asked.

"I'm going to find Rosebury-Sykes. Better let the posh tosser know about it, 'ave 'im make 'imself useful and get the guests of 'ere as fast as 'e can and tell us the layout of the boat, where they might be and the like."

Ray and Chris nodded their agreement at this plan of action and began making their way off, talking amongst themselves, throwing suggestions back and forth.

"Oh and Skelton," Gene called and Chris turned around. "Take off those ridiculous glasses and that bastard cape, no-one's going to believe you're a copper if you tell them so dressed like that," he instructed.

"Roger that, Guv," Chris said and obeyed as he hurried off.

Catching an immediate sight of his lordship standing, mercifully, alone to his right he made his way over.

"Good evening your lordship," he began, clearing his throat and saw Rosebury-Sykes panic as he tried to place Gene – it would be to no avail; they'd never met in their lives.

"Evening, my good fellow," he smiled and boomed in the end, a nice safe greeting. "Enjoying the party? Anything I can do for you?"

"Urm, I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad news sir, and you're not going to like it."

But before he could deliver the death blow to this social event, Gene who was, by this point, chewing his bottom lip, fiddling with his hands and the tassels on his poncho and bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet out of an appropriate sense of urgency, was saved the job.

Rosebury-Skyes' general dogsbody (probably awarded the title of butler or something else inappropriate to his role) hurried over, black suit tails trailing.

"You're never going to believe this sir," he began with the look of a Doomsday Prophet on his face.

A few moments later, his lordship was beet red.

"What is this nonsense!" he cried after being told that there were two men claiming to be officers of the law and rushing around the boat searching through the rooms and using foul language and threats in order to quiz guests, all the while telling tales of an abduction.

Good ol' RaynChris. Gene felt a prod of pride. He'd taught them well.

Then Rosebury-Sykes heard the words 'they said they've called in the uniformed police and are talking about a rapist and murderer' and all but exploded in a way that rivalled Hiroshima.

All the while, Gene was more than eager to begin searching, praying no longer for Alex to be out of harms way but that Burns hadn't left the boat. If they were still here they would find them in no time and hopefully _in_ time. If he'd taken her elsewhere then…well Gene would leap that hurdle if it materialised. All he could do now was hope for small mercies. Still, out of desperation to see the boat cleared and path made easier he briefly blurted out a story to Rosebury-Sykes who moved from anger to disbelief to acceptance in a surprisingly short time. But Gene suspected that he wasn't so much accepting as of the opinion that it was better to believe the insane ramblings of the cowboy in front of him and deal with it later if it proved to be a sick joke as opposed to suspending all belief and risking someone's life.

Soon, he was providing a verbal layout of his boat and instructing Gene where to look as they ushered guests away as quickly as possible. It wasn't long before Gene came face to face with his two officers, both of whom had found nothing more pressing than a few drug pushers who would be dealt with when the time was right.

Just as the sirens around the city became audible Gene heard something more in the clear evening air. Sporadic thuds coming from below where he was standing invaded his ears. Then a shout, someone crying out in pain or fear or anger. Then a scream and a sob. More thudding. His heart skipped a beat. They were definitely still on the boat. He shouted at Rosebury-Sykes and his dogsbody for assistance and to tell him where the noise could be coming from, beckoning and pointing for added affect.

It was then he whirled around and saw the tiniest, most narrow flight of stairs imaginable literally just to his right, a few feet away. Extending from them was a thin corridor with four strong-looking oak doors, two on each side. Just as he looked down the furthest door from him on his right burst open violently. That was when he saw her. His heart leapt at the sight of the terror on her face. He'd never seen anyone look so afraid and vulnerable.

She had two angry looking red marks on her neck and collar as well as some gently bleeding cuts on her throat. He remembered staring, fascinated at the skin there that very day. He had almost been able to see the pulses there giving him confirmation of her continuing life flow. The beating had been tantalisingly wafting her perfume over him, hence his fascination with her throat at the time. He'd imagined being able to lean in closer, press his nose, his lips closer to the scented areas. He'd cut himself off as soon as he'd imagined that far. It was quite far enough.

Angry bruises were already appearing across her shoulders and tops of her arms as well as a small round one on her cheek, the blood from her veins pooling under her soft, smooth skin. Her make up was smeared across her face and her hair was sticking up oddly in places, while other parts hung limp, practically straight. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from her tears and there were already dark shadows under them.

As she hurried from under the doorway he caught sight of all the blood. Her hand was clutched to her breast with blood dripping across her fingers. It had soaked her outfit, making the black material look thick and shiny.

It felt like he had stared for ages, as well as shouted out to her, but in reality it was only a few seconds, half a minute. But it was half a minute too long. He saw Burns, who had a gash on his head, at the hairline (at least Alex was putting up a good fight) shoot out behind her. Gene threw himself down the stairs, shouting for Chris and Ray to help him, but he was barely halfway down before Burns had dragged Alex back inside, slamming the door shut.

With the momentum of running down the stairs and the along corridor carrying him he continued into the door, knowing it would hurt before he made contact. Not really caring. He hit the door with his shoulder and it really did kill. But it didn't matter. Neither did it work. The door was thick and strong. It would be hard to break into from such a small corridor. His hand groped for the handle which he tried to open but it wouldn't move – Burns had wedged something underneath it. The door was stuck fast. With his ear pressed to the door he could hear all the sounds of a struggle slowly dying away.

_Shit!_

"Bolly!" he called as loudly as he could.

No reply came in any form – a shout, a scream, the sound of her punching the bastard the way she'd punched him.

_Shit._

"Bolls!"

Nothing.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. _

He struggled with the door and soon a host of uniforms surrounded him like bees in a hive. They all began the task of getting into the room, working together. All he could do was pray it wasn't too late. All he could hear was the ringing of the words _'if anyone else gets hurt, if anything goes wrong, it'll all be your fault Hunt.'_

-/-/-

If ever there was a time for self-reflection and exploring the meaning of life, now was it. It wasn't that she was aiming that deep but she did allow herself to wonder how her life had gone this wrong. Watching her parents get blown up as a little girl, left to be a single mum when the man she thought would love her forever made a run for it (although, granted she had been given a beautiful, bright, intelligent, wonderful daughter in return), shot in 2008 and left for dead (whether she actually was dead or not was all guesswork), stuck in 1981 with the constructs of her traumatised mind and now attacked in her own bloody fantasy. How was that amount of bad luck fair in any way?

It was a cliché, but she felt rather like she was floating away from herself as her body starved. Her head was pounding and her limbs throbbed as her muscles and organs begged her lungs for air. Her lungs begged her heart, but it could not help them. She felt dizzy and weak and she knew that there was no fighting this, although she gave it a bloody good try. It felt like she was battling for oxygen for hours and hours but she knew it could be only seconds – she knew enough about science to know that she would not last longer than a few minutes, tops.

She wanted to struggle more, but couldn't. In her mind's eye she pictured herself giving up the fight in much the same way in 2008. She couldn't allow herself to do that, yet she was giving up here. Or was she? Was she supposed to let go of this world and stop fighting it in order to get back? Were the events of 2008 keeping her in this world to keep her safe? Or was it that this world was keeping her _from_ 2008, was it secretly, softly, gently killing her? Her mind became dizzier and dustier and mustier and in the end she gave up thought entirely.

She could still hear the sounds of the outside world trying to force its way in and eventually, it seems, it succeeded. Because one minute the room was dark and shadowy and only getting blacker, then light filtered in. It didn't flood the room exactly and nor was it bright because it was coming from the doorway. Someone had flung the door wide and what was left of the evening light tiptoed into the room. From where she was lying Alex craned her neck to see what has happening and to shout for help, although all that came out was a scratchy moan. Her eyes, now refusing to focus properly, just about fixed on a figure standing tall in the doorway. She heard her name being called and her eyes shut for a minute. Someone grabbed Burns and pulled him away, the pressure on her throat finally relenting. But by now her body was screaming at her, her limbs were stubbornly refusing to move and her head felt as though it would explode. Her eyes protested and tried to look at the figure in the light, it was Gene, wasn't it? She prayed it was.

"Alex?" The voice was deep and urgent.

"Alex?" Actually it was quite harsh and cold. She didn't like it that much.

"Alex!" it boomed and her eyes shot open. She tried to scream. The sound was taken from her. It wasn't Gene standing over her. The bright white face leered over her and grinned, showing off straight, tombstone teeth. "You're going to die, Alex. There's no one to save you." His eyes narrowed and his singular, painted eyebrow arched. Lipstick-red lips pressed together. She'd never liked clowns.

"No," she said in a whisper. "No, I can't be,"

"You're talking Alex," he said in a voice that was mock-soothing. "Your body can't talk, not right now; it's too painful, isn't it? So why are you answering me?"

"I'm not, I can't, I mean..." she began to panic. Maybe she was dying, maybe he was taking her to Hell.

"It's all Hunt's fault Alex, if only he let you arrest that man, this never would have happened. He's killed you Alex," he smiled again. "And to think you thought you might be friends. Maybe more. Well not now," he threw his head back and laughed a deafening, satisfied, sickening laugh. "You're going to come with me now, Alex," he instructed, holding out a painted hand.

"No," she whispered, "please, I don't want to," she knew she sounded like a child, but it was how she felt. Lost and alone and, above all, scared. She looked around her and the sounds of people hurrying around her were fading, she couldn't see their faces so clearly anymore. She imagined if she just gave up on life in 2008, if she didn't fight. She'd lose Molly. She'd lose everything. That couldn't happen. She wouldn't give up there. So why should she give up on the world inside her own head. It wasn't right. And it most certainly wasn't D.I. Alex Drake.

"No!" she cried, "it wasn't his fault, he was only trying to help," she tried to defend Gene.

"That's not true Alex and you know it, listen to me. Trust me."

"No! He's a good man and I trust him not you - you're just here to scare me, you're _not real_. You're just in my head and I don't know how you got there, but it's time you pissed off!"

The white face dangling above her creased into shock, surprise. Then it disappeared. Out of it burst Gene's own face. His body was there too, his hands reaching out to stroke her hair. His lips formed gentle words she couldn't hear. He instructed police officers she could no longer see. She lost consciousness and stopped trying to get it back now – she knew that Gene, along with her constructed paramedics, would take could care of her. He wouldn't let her die.

-/-/-

At first, she thought it was a hangover. Really, she did. It was true; she _had _once had a hangover so bad that she was able to mistake attempted rape and murder for it. But just for a second, then it all whizzed back into her brain. Knowing she was in hospital, she forced her eyes open and saw four faces staring at her from above. Chris and Shaz to her left, Gene and Ray to her right. A dry moan drifted from her parted lips.

"Y'alright ma'am?" Shaz asked concernedly and, although Alex knew she meant well, she felt like pointing out that actually, she had just been attacked by a religious nutter, so it might take some time.

After that, they all started talking at once, trying to get their side of the story in first, as well as their well-wishes and concerns such as _'I was so scared you were going to die, ma'am, but I'm so, so glad you're safe,' _from Shaz or, _'I really thought you'd had it boss, I mean ma'am,'_ from Chris or even _'we were worried you'd lose your tits the way he'd slashed you, Drake. That would have been a loss to Fenchurch East, I can tell you,' _from Ray, the sensitive soul he was.

At this, Gene stood up and clapped his hands together so that they all jumped.

"Alright! All of you out, now! Give the lady some air, she's 'ad quite a night, let 'er rest!" he barked. Alex had never been so grateful of anything.

Gradually the three others made their goodbyes and filed out, Alex thought Gene was going to leave too, but after coughing awkwardly, he mumbled a request to stay for a bit, which she willingly granted. He told her what she expected to hear, that they were all frantic with worry by the time they'd worked out Burns had taken her, that it was so difficult to get through the door and Gene didn't think they'd make in time and that once in there, Gene was praying that the paramedics and doctors could reverse the damage which, of course, they had. Wonderful, wonderful constructs. Although, she had to admit she was starting to doubt her beliefs there.

After a small silence, Gene ran a hand through his hair and said,

"Jesus Christ, I almost lost you there Bolls," and she was touched at his obvious relief. She hadn't known he cared. She nodded slowly and swallowed, testing out her voice. It was scratchy and a bit gravelly, but it worked.

"I know, I almost lost you too. I almost lost myself, I almost gave up," she admitted. "I don't know why, but I didn't really fight it properly at first. I just sort of accepted it was happening. Then, just in time I guess, I realised that it didn't have to be that way. That I could fight to death if I wanted to. So I pushed him away and tried to run. I almost succeeded too,"

"I know, I saw you. You gave me a bloody fright," he replied, tempted to add in how terrified he was when he saw the pain and fear on her face and the blood everywhere. But he didn't say anything. Best not too, not right now. So, being the Gene Genie, he decided to make a joke of it instead, because that's the only way he can deal with the fact that he was honestly going out of his mind with the worry that he might never see her again.

"I must say though, I'm surprised to 'ear that it took you a while to put up a good fight Bolly," he asserted.

"Why?"

"Why? 'Cause it took you all of about two seconds to decide to slap me on the cheek and punch _me_ in the chin!"

She grinned and laughed a little – as much as her aching throat allowed.

"It's weird, there were times when, although he had a knife and was saying lots of things from the Bible about cleansing me and whatnot it didn't feel like he was a threat. He was terrified, that much is for sure. Irrational, angry Ryan Burns took him over and he just couldn't stop his alter ego. He didn't want to do it, but he just couldn't stop himself. And I know that sounds like bullshit to you," she added before he could butt in – he'd raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth.

"But I was there. I heard him. I felt his fear. And I mean, I genuinely was scared but you could tell he hated what he'd become – the people who love the pain and the fear and the death, they get good at murder; they revel in it. Burns hated it and he was terrified; he wasn't so great at this raping and murdering lark, there were times when he got really easily distracted."

"Well s'a bloody good job 'e did, that's for sure," he said forcefully and she smiled.

"Thanks," she said, "for saving me. Or for helping. Or for whatever you did."

"Well, I'm just glad you're safe an' that you're going to be alright," he said somewhat sheepishly.

"Thanks,"

"An', er, I'm sorry. About our argument. I realised what you said about it being my fault if someone got 'urt. An' it would have been down to me if 'e, well you know, if 'e'd killed you or raped you for that matter,"

"No, look Gene, I was angry, I'm sorry, I wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself for anything."

"But I would've though. Look, I shouldn't 'ave fought you, we should've worked together more and it's my fault I'm sorry," his eyes were entreating her to understand. To stop him floundering like some hooked fish.

"Friends, Gene?" she asked.

"Yeah, friends Bolls."

There was a silence while he looked at her, his eyes roaming her face. Somehow, (call it women's intuition) she knew what he was thinking, what he was going to say. Part of her wanted to agree, to say yes. But she knew it was too soon and she didn't want it to happen here, in a hospital. She needed more time – it was a woman's prerogative.

"Listen, Alex, while we're, you know, being 'onest with each other an' all that, well recently, I've been thinkin', there seems to be something more between us and I really think I should add to that 'friends' agreement," his hand seemed to want to edge closer to hers but kept denying itself. He was nervous, she could tell and that was the reason behind the awkwardness of his words. It was cute though, that blush on his cheeks and his attempts at admitting he'd like to be more-than-friends gave her butterflies a bit. She just wasn't ready yet. In time, though.

"See Bolls, I think we've been gettin' on really well up until today but we've made up now. It was just seein' you in so much danger made me realise something. You might be a pain in the arse sometimes but I can't deny that you're...attractive," '_oh great,'_ she thought. He didn't stop, "and, well I know, I'm not the freshest flower in the bunch but I got more to offer. And, on top of that I can't deny that I _'ave_ been imagin' you in th..." Alex's hearing did a double take. Ok-_ay_ maybe that was enough for one eventful, stressful, near-rape-and-murder night.

"Don't push it Hunt!"

"Well 'ere me out, it's just that..."

"Forgotten that punch have we?"

"Best just leave it, eh Bolls?"

"You're learning Hunt, you're learning."

**A/N: So, that's it, that's the end. I hope you've enjoyed reading, sorry it was a bit short but that's just how my evil muse is. I have something longer (hopefully) waiting in the wings, no promises though, but I hope I'll see you all there! If anyone has any suggestions, complaints or requests (as well as general comments) feel free to add them into a review or PM me. Thanks again for joining me on this three-shot! Alissa =)**


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